


Ineffable Fictober

by wondercurls1917



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's True Form (Good Omens), Crack Treated Seriously, Crowley's True Form (Good Omens), Fictober, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, a bitch is tired, minific everyday
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-11-27 03:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20941520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wondercurls1917/pseuds/wondercurls1917
Summary: The thirty-one day challenge where I have to write a minific every day but they're my own prompts ;)I promise it's really good. Mostly it's crack but, more often than not, it's. Really soft.





	1. ineffable fictober list

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> should've posted this first!!! whoops

Day 1: True forms

Day 2: A spell by Anathema gone wrong

Day 3: The Bookshop's Weird Smell

Day 4: Snippet of ig user @lillee.nika 's Gorgon AU

Day 5: Canon-compliant Mafia AU

Day 6: Canon-compliant Influencer AU

Day 7: The Tattoo Artist & the Flowershop Owner

Day 8: Oops! Honey, I Stole the Antichrist (the Full married AU)

Day 9: Reverse AU uwu

Day 10: Uno Reverse AU (aka Reverse AU on crack!)

Day 11: Perceived to be Married (but they're still having trouble reconciling their feelings!)

Day 12: Andrew Hozier has had Heavenly influences as well as Hellish but that's for you to decide

Day 13: The Preschool Teacher & the Firefighter

Day 14: Vampire AU (fuck you!)

Day 15: Protector(s) of the Queer Folk

Day 16: Pirate AU

Day 17: (extended:) Mermaid AU

Day 18: Good Omens but Crowley's completely blind the whole time

Day 19: Never Met AU/"We both got abducted but you're an angel and I'm a demon. We'd probably be able to figure this out if we both weren't so incompetent."

Day 20: True Forms part deux

Day 21: Occultists in Soho (a BBC Sherlock special)

Day 22: Blind!Raphael AU (aka he gains sight in his Fall but loses his soulmate, until...)

Day 23: Crowley falls asleep in the weirdest fucking places

Day 24: Crowley & Aziraphale's Different Aspects/He's Not Just a Snake

Day 25: Canon-compliant Youtuber AU

Day 26: Good Omens but Crowley does drag on weekends and Aziraphale is definitely his makeup artist

Day 27: College Roommates

Day 28: Instead of a bookshop Aziraphale runs a bakery

Day 29: Gorgon AU part deux

Day 30: They adopt defected angels and demons!!

Day 31: They Are Literally God's Favored Children and Nobody Can Convince Me Otherwise


	2. The Cone of Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 1: True Forms

Coming out of one’s corporation was something Crowley and Aziraphale learned the hard way.

Every five years, Crowley had to spend maybe a week in his so-called true form—such a short time between shedding body since Crowley had, after all, been a more powerful body in Heaven. Given their recent development in the relationship department, Aziraphale and Crowley had both agreed that, when the time came to shed body, they’d be left in one another’s care.

Crowley had never seen Aziraphale’s true form, but given how embarrassed he was when they talked about it, Crowley could guess it wasn’t as extraordinary as an angel’s usually was. He wasn’t expecting much from Aziraphale’s true form; Aziraphale was a principality. It took a decade or so to build up to the point where Aziraphale had to shed his corporation. Crowley had forewarned his partner that his form would be a bit much to handle, given his archangel status in Heaven, but all the warning Crowley got from Aziraphale was, “Mine is a bit… whiny.”

~*~

The first sign Crowley was getting ready to shed body was his irises: the yellow of his eyes leaked into the whites like the broken yolk of an egg. He dismissed this as stress; this was something that could happen at _any _time, after all, not just during his season.

The second sign was the return of fangs. His canines would extend slowly day after day until a dramatic (and slightly painful) burst of growth brought them a few centimeters down. Signs that this was coming up would be overproduction of venom from his venom glands, just behind the canines. It left a bitter taste in Crowley’s mouth that he sort of hated, and he often had to find a sink, trashcan, or patch of nearby dirt to spit out the glob of venomous gunk that’d built up.

The third, and final, warning sign—if ever it got that far—was the scales, the sibilant consonants, and the nesting.

Patches of scales would pop up along Crowley’s arms and legs, sometimes creeping up his neck and jaw, making his skin tight and itchy around them. He’d hiss through his words far more often than not, couldn’t really _control _it, at that point, and he’d gather soft things—pillows, blankets, comforters, cushions, sweaters, quilts—into a spare room in his flat specifically for this purpose.

Right now, he was at nesting. Aziraphale was out at a rare book auction.

Crowley waited, mostly satisfied with his nest, curled up in the epicenter of it on a heated blanket. The chord was plugged into a nearby outlet, and wooden branch-like rods extended up the far wall like an artificial tree. Crowley was mostly serpentine in his true form, with hundreds of (closed) eyes along his body and three pairs of charcoal wings which extended along his spine. The broken halo that followed him around, more often than not, would burn a little, ache, but that wasn’t what typically stuck with him while his body was shed.

What _typically _ran through Crowley’s head while out of corporation was _seek mate _and _find warmth._

Warmth had been found. Right now, all Crowley needed was his mate, and he’d be _golden._

A lock twisted in the keyhole of the front door, oh-so-faraway and yet _so close, _and the door swung open. Soft steps shuffled in and Crowley dazedly lifted his head, coming out of the light doze he’d been slipping into.

“Crowley, my love, where are you?” Aziraphale called, voice echoing in the sleek, empty flat.

Crowley glanced about, found a small throw pillow, and tossed it out of the door and into the hallway. Aziraphale appeared just outside the door, reaching for the pillow on the floor. He glanced into the room and smiled, stepping inside and shutting the door behind himself.

“There you are, dear,” he hummed brightly, coming over to replace the throw pillow in the nest and carefully step into it, sitting cross-legged just near Crowley’s head. “Ready, are we?”

Crowley hissed softly, reaching out clumsily with a hand that would soon not be, and Aziraphale took it and dragged Crowley into his lap.

With a happy wiggle, Crowley went supernova.

~*~

Even after shedding his body, Crowley had a habit of nesting and seeking warmth and company.

At the current moment, he was dozing on the sofa in the flat above the bookshop, in a warm (tartan) sweater that smelt of Aziraphale, beneath a handmade quilt that usually stayed over the back of this very sofa, lying on top of his heated blanket. Aziraphale stopped by every hour or so to give Crowley a kiss on the head and enjoy fine company with his partner. On more than one occasion, the angel handed him a mug of warm cocoa, which Crowley would hold in two careful hands—dexterity after being a serpent with no external limbs was a tricky thing to manage—and sometimes sip at as he nodded along to whatever Aziraphale was telling him.

It was midday when he noticed a pattern.

Sitting upright, a mug of cocoa topped with cinnamon and mini marshmallows cupped between his slowly-warming hands, Crowley watched his mate talk animatedly with his hands. Apparently, a customer downstairs hade been very tricky, wouldn’t leave without purchasing the book he wanted, and Aziraphale had been driven to kicking him out after the argument escalated into hateful words aimed toward him—as it happened, because most everybody believed Aziraphale was queer in the sexual sense, and not everybody took kindly to that. The book had been saved, fortunately, and— _There._

Every five minutes, like clockwork, Aziraphale scratched the right side of his neck. The skin there was already a bit pink, but Crowley deigned to inspect the spot a bit closer.

Flecks of gold decorated Aziraphale’s collar. The flaky gold substance was the same kind most angels were known to be seen with, as they never did have to shed body, so their Heavenly features would meld with their corporations, resulting in this type of thing. Crowley was far from an expert on this sort of thing, not anywhere _near _it, but he knew one thing: Aziraphale’s season was coming.

“Of course, the lady, thought I was a trifle upset about the, ah, _name-calling,” _Aziraphale said shyly, rubbing the spot at his neck with a rough gesture. “She had asked about a tip jar, and then about calling the police, and I simply couldn’t have—”

“What’s your celestial body like?” Crowley blurted, removing his eyes from his partner’s neck. “Sorry, just thought I should know about it, you know. In case it comes sooner than you realized.”

Aziraphale looked slightly perturbed, and then his face flushed. “Oh, it, uh, it’s, hm…” He cleared his throat, laughing nervously. “It’s hard to explain, dear boy, you must understand.”

“I have a serpent’s body with a thousand closed eyes and three pairs of wings on my back,” the demon deadpanned, raising a sly eyebrow as he lifted up his mug of cocoa. “Last week you watched me try to swallow a pillow whole. It can’t be that bad, angel.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat again, averting his gaze. “Right,” he murmured. “I can’t… _really _explain it.”

“What about things you need, any specifics?” Crowley reclined a bit, nudging his lover with a socked foot. “Anything you feel you might need, or like?”

“We might have to do it in your flat, if you wouldn’t mind so terribly,” Aziraphale said. He looked a bit ashamed, which was… _strange. _What sort of angel was ashamed of their true form, the form in which they took on the most holiness? “Sometimes, I tend to… hide. And I’m afraid I’ll be quite, ah, clumsy. _Uncoordinated. _I won’t recall much at all from the week when I’ve woken up at the end. And I won’t nest like you, dear, but I will _nest. _Be aware.”

He stopped there, pushed a hand across his scalp—mussing his soft white-gold curls even more—and pushed himself to stand.

“I must be getting back down to the shop, my dear,” he said politely, planting a firm kiss at the corner of Crowley’s mouth. “Do call if you need anything at all.”

~*~

The day Aziraphale finally gave in to shedding body was nearly a week later. Crowley didn’t know how the Heaven he lasted that long, but by then the poor angel was dazed and patched gold in more than one place.

Crowley lead him into the flat with a hand on the small of his back, gentle and coaxing. Aziraphale had been clingy the past two days, now included, and had most definitely only given in because the flakes of gold that trailed up his jaw and around his eye were no longer manageable. The night prior, Crowley had made sure to clean his flat—that meant all doors that could be shut were shut, and the hallway leading into his plant nursery and office were sealed off as well, just in case. A room beside Crowley’s own nesting room had joined the admittedly few rooms in the flat, and he’d set up what he could.

Aziraphale had given up several more pieces of his true form in the week leading up to know, and Crowley had learned that the angel’s Heavenly body was small—smaller than most, and _especially _smaller than Crowley’s true form—and that a soft cushion would be nice. Crowley had also managed to glimpse, on a drunk night where he’d sobered up a bit faster than Aziraphale had, that Aziraphale often wanted sustenance in his true form but couldn’t manage it by himself. _Just a nice dish of cream would do, _he’d slurred wistfully, and Crowley had taken that to heart. The last thing he’d snuck out of him, right before Aziraphale had sobered up, was that loud noises scared him frightfully bad, and one had to be gentle with him while in his true form.

“Here we are, angel,” Crowley said softly, opening the door into the room. It was barren save for, indeed, a soft cushion he’d deemed had to be the right size, a painted white glass dish beside the cushion, a miniature fridge in the far corner which only contained cartons of cream, and a small and open nest in the corner nearest to the cushion, which Crowley had made out of two nice pillows and three blankets on a whim. “Are you ready?”

Aziraphale stared for a few long moments and then turned quickly on his heel, grasping the soft grey sweater Crowley was wearing in both hands desperately. “Crowley, _please _don’t make me do this. Oh, _please.”_

_Dear Lord Above. _“Angel, I’m sure it’s not so bad. Come on, you won’t be able to stay among humans if you keep this up. And besides, we promised we’d take care of each other when we needed it. You’ve done your part, now I do mine. I’ll take care of you.”

Crowley wrapped his arms tenderly around Aziraphale, swaying them back and forth until Aziraphale’s frantic grip loosened.

“There’s a love,” he murmured, still swaying hypnotically as the angel’s tension eased. He pressed kisses all over Aziraphale’s face, gentle and sweet, until his angel was practically putty in his hands. “Time to drop, Aziraphale. I’ll catch you.”

Aziraphale sucked in a panicked gasp, but it was already too late. He’d let his guard down, dismissed the stress, and Crowley nearly yelped at the burning ball of light that he held in his arms. He did his best not to make too loud a noise, setting Aziraphale carefully on the ground as he shed his corporation.

And… _what the fuck._

“What the fuck,” Crowley said eloquently.

Sitting pitifully on the floor before him, where Aziraphale had been standing moments ago, was a blue-ish feline creature with a single pair of wings and maybe a dozen or so golden eyes spattered about his body. No tail accompanied the small being, but his fur _did _seem soft. Looking miserably up at Crowley through one wide golden eye on a face which only otherwise contained a heart-shaped nose and small mouth was Aziraphale, except he was looking through… _a cone._

Strike that. A cone-shaped _halo. _Aziraphale’s true form was a small feline-shaped being with a pair of wings, probably eighteen to twenty golden eyes, and a single sole eye which he probably couldn’t see very well out of, because his halo was the shape of a cone of shame.

Crowley crouched down before Aziraphale as he circled around carefully and lifted a hind leg to start scratching at the cone-shaped halo. His sole eye was squinted, clearly displaying a defeated sort of sadness and desperation. Crowley reached a hand to ease it over the halo, careful not to burn himself on the faintly glowing inside of it, keeping it in place.

Aziraphale made a soft whining noise, dipping his head with the weight of the halo, shaking it in an effort to dislodge it. When Crowley brought his other hand up to keep it in place, muttering a soft, “The cone stays on, angel,” Aziraphale gave up and dropped dramatically to the ground, a large tear gathering in his sole eye.

“Yes, I _do _suppose this is rather uncomfortable,” Crowley said, dipping both hands down to scoop up his angel, who flapped his pale blue wings in protest. “But you can’t lose that halo. I don’t think you’d very much appreciate yourself in your right mind if you did.” With this, Crowley deposited Aziraphale safely onto the soft cushion and stood to grab a carton of cream from the miniature fridge.

It made sense, with the context that Aziraphale was feline-shaped. He poured some of the cream into the glass dish beside the cushion and set cross-legged by his angel as he peeked curiously at the dish.

Aziraphale came down to drink from the dish… and couldn’t reach. Crowley watched as Aziraphale mewed sadly before coming to resettle, well and truly miserable, on the cushion, regarding the cream-filled dish with a sense of pitiful want.

Crowley snapped his fingers and manifested a bottle, the kind one would use to feed a kitten. He lifted the dish to transfer the cream into the bottle, and the cream had the right sense not to spill down the sides. Crowley screwed the nipple back onto the bottle, gathered Aziraphale into his lip, and bottle-fed him the cream.

“Well, angel,” he said, watching with a gleeful sort of awe as Aziraphale’s eyes fell closed at the gratefulness of being able to get the proper sustenance he required. “Not what I expected, but you happen to be a very cute kit.”

This is when the lightning storm began.


	3. Anathema Device's Guide on How to Correctly Recite a Spell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: A spell by Anathema gone wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is horny and Crowley cries the whole time

It was true that Anathema was a practiced witch.

Practiced in divination, yes, herbology, astrology, even a few nature spells. But Aziraphale had given her this grade-A magic book for Christmas, and it was _spring _now, and she’d be _damned _if she didn’t unlock its secrets by now.

She’d even crushed up the special paste this spell required, though it looked a bit like guacamole, and she was currently in the kitchen with her hands hovering above the pages of the book, eyes closed, gently murmuring the admittedly tricky recitation.

From somewhere in the house, there was a small explosion, and Anathema dropped what she was doing, the spell lingering in the air around the bowl of paste on the kitchen island.

Crowley and Aziraphale gad always been punctual, as long as Anathema and Newton had known them. Anathema was awfully forgetful, which is why she kept meetings in a calendar which Newt carried on himself. Upon entering Jasmine Cottage, Crowley spotted the bowl of aromatic green paste and his first thought was _refreshments._

Aziraphale, having a slightly weaker sense of smell and slightly stronger moral compass, did not catch Crowley before the ex-demon miracled a bag of tortilla chips into existence and dipped a chip into the paste. Crowley grinned, mouth closed to maintain some sort of self-preservation, and Aziraphale threw him a chiding look.

“Oh, it’s got a tang to it,” the serpent exclaimed after a few moments, eyebrows flying up at the delayed taste. He offered a paste-laden chip to his partner. “Try it, angel, you’ll like it.”

Aziraphale may have had a stronger moral compass, but it hastily weakened in the presence of food. Aziraphale took the chip and ate it, and he _did _like it.

Anathema rushed downstairs at the panicked yell her friends let out, suddenly recalling their lunch today, and entered the kitchen to see a very unsettling picture.

A young man with an extreme likeness to Aziraphale stood in slightly over-large clothes that Aziraphale wore on a day-to-day basis, except for the fact that he was _very much younger _and _shorter _and his hair was _completely pitch dark. _Beside him, on the floor, a young man with the likeness of Crowley was on his knees, face pressed into his hands, and the only thing Aziraphale was doing about it was getting a boner, which… _Ew._

“WHAT HAPPENED?” Anathema screeched, pulling back when Crowley let out a particularly loud wail as he threw his head back. “Okay, sorry. Did you guys… um. Did you eat the stuff in the bowl?”

Given there was an open bag of tortilla chips on the table, she could take a hint.

Still, Aziraphale said in a slightly higher-pitched voice, “Crowley thought it was fresh guacamole. Awfully sorry, my dear.”

She eyed the slightly shorter, black-haired principality. She raised an eyebrow at the tent in his trousers. “Doesn’t look like it, though, does it?”

Aziraphale blushed, bringing his hands down to cover his shame. “Don’t know what’s gotten into me. Again, awfully sorry.”

~*~

Miracles seemed possible, still, which meant comfortably fitting clothes were acquired.

Aziraphale emerged from the bathroom feeling as though he looked very odd with a head of tousled black hair and wearing what kids these days called _fashion. _A pair of black pants, accompanied by a white shirt, grey zip-up jacket, and blue sneakers.

He must’ve looked downright _frumpy._

Crowley wore a vee-neck grey shirt and black shorts with black boots and a pinkish flannel tied around his waist. He looked rather _neat, _Aziraphale thought, comfortable and slack despite his blotchy red face and bloodshot golden eyes. He sniffled when Aziraphale perched himself down beside him.

“Didne ken ye used tae hae black hair, angel,” Crowley said.

Holy Lord God in Heaven. _Crowley had a Scottish accent._

“Why on God’s green Earth do you sound like Shadwell?” Newton asked from the doorway to the kitchen, looking wildly disturbed.

“Jesus,” Anathema hissed, shaking her head. “Okay. So Crowley used to have a Scots accent, then. When did you _drop _that?”

“Before he met me on the wall,” Aziraphale said dazedly. He felt a tension in his gut and glanced down sheepishly. “Ah. Dreadful body, this.” He grabbed a throw pillow to hide his privates.

“Didnae—” Crowley cut himself off with a new sob, bending over at the waist to cry into his hands. “Ah didne ken it woods come back.”

Aziraphale clucked his tongue and cooed at his love, reaching over to rub at Crowley’s shivering shoulder. “My dear, it’s quite alright. You don’t have to tell us about it if you don’t want to.”

Crowley hiccupped, sniffed, and peeked up. “Ah dornt?” he asked, voice shy and shivering.

“No, you don’t,” Aziraphale confirmed. A tingling started up in the base of his spine. “I think it’s rather ravishing, actually.”

Crowley let out a wet giggle, and _oh. _Aziraphale’s heart filled with love for his soft demon, as did certain _other _parts of his body’s strange biology. Aziraphale held the pillow harder against his lap and tried desperately to redirect his divine blood elsewhere. When he moved his arm up, Crowley was hesitant but eventually _did _collapse into Aziraphale’s side.

And then the tingling sensation burst into a fuzzy static, and he was a full-sized Aziraphale holding a full-sized Crowley.

Crowley startled. He looked down at himself, then up at Aziraphale. “Wot,” he said eloquently.

“The spell wore off,” Anathema said, looking more than a little shocked herself. “Wow, uh… Probably because… you’re not human?”

“Either way,” Aziraphale chuckled. He rid himself of the pillow. “I’m glad to have control of my bodily functions once more.”

Crowley chortled, stuffing his face into Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale couldn’t help laughing back.


	4. The Bookshop's Weird Smell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally find out the strange smell that drives off Aziraphale's potential customers. (Spoiler alert: it's weed. Aziraphale smokes weed.)

It wasn’t unusual, nowadays, for Crowley to find his way to the bookshop completely unannounced. Especially given the recent development of their relationship.

When Crowley entered, he made no sort of disrupting noises. The bookshop was closed—in midday, too, meaning Aziraphale was probably out getting baked goods or something—and he’d like very much to surprise his angel the old-fashioned, mischief-maker sort of way. Except there was music drifting down from the second floor of the bookshop, where the flat was, which meant Aziraphale was _definitely _home, and he was _definitely _upstairs.

Crowley crept across the bookshop floor, toward the backroom. The hidden flight of stairs was just near it, and it’d just be _so _funny if he transformed into a serpent halfway up the stairs and spooked his angel.

In the stairwell, Crowley was stopped short. Thick, downy clouds settled and plumed downward through the flight of stairs, and when Crowley’s tongue flicked out of its own volition and settled back into his mouth, his face soured. Of course, he’d _known _Aziraphale’s bookshop had a strange smell; it was how the angel shooed potential customers away. But _this? _There was no way.

Crowley climbed the staircase, thinking, _No. Can’t be. Aziraphale would never._

If there were any doubts at the bottom of the staircase, there weren’t any at the top. He stood in the doorway, nose wrinkled, face pinched, feeling like he’d been slapped with a goddamn fish.

Crowley knew what fucking _weed _smelled like.

Aziraphale laying on the corner piece of a sofa, his head pillowed on a very smushed cushion, surrounded on all sides by soft blankets, was, indeed, smoking a blunt, humming along to what Crowley was fairly certain was the _Black Panther _soundtrack, which… _Wow._

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s face lit up like the sun, his hooded eyes not so much as lifting. He ashed his blunt in a fancy glass ashtray to his right elbow, attempting and failing to sit up. “So nice to see you, my dear. I hope you don’t mind.”

Crowley observed his angel one more time. Aziraphale had divested himself of his coat and had rolled up his sleeves, and his bowtie was nowhere to be seen, giving Crowley just the slightest inkling that Aziraphale’s chest might very well be coated in a thin layer of fine, white-blond hair. His shoes were also missing, which struck Crowley as odd initially, but then Aziraphale wiggled his socked toes and then stuffed them into a blanket, which made only a little more sense.

“No, I’m a demon, I don’t mind,” he decided, coming over to flop beside Aziraphale, and the ashtray only stayed where it was by miracle. Aziraphale hummed and nodded considerately, and then a bubble of giggles burst from his mouth. Crowley raised his eyebrows as he toed off his boots and shrugged off his jacket. “How long have you smoked, angel?”

“Oh, um…” Aziraphale giggled again as Crowley removed his shoelace tassels. “When was marijuana first commercialized again, my dear?”

“…the seventies?” Crowley tried.

“Ah, yes.” Aziraphale nodded, taking a long hit of his blunt and then blowing it out away from Crowley’s face. “Then. During, ah… Woodstock, was it?”

Crowley rolled his eyes heavenward, trying to find strength. “You’ve been smoking weed since _Woodstock, _angel? And I never knew?”

“It sort of helps me with how, erm, ah… What’s that word?” Aziraphale waved his hand vaguely. “The one… you know it, dear, it’s the word you use to describe when I’m, hmm, all twisted up, like right after a meeting with Heaven.”

“Anxious?” Crowley asked. He swung up his feet and relaxed. “Shit, angel, I didn’t know it was so bad! You could’ve told me.”

Aziraphale nodded solemnly, then offered the blunt up to Crowley. Crowley frowned, face souring, and his angel burst into another fit of giggles.

“I think we’re the same, Crowley,” he said, bloodshot eyes half closed but still serious. “I get anxious, but I hide it a lot. You get anxious very, ah… _loudly. _I’m just so often caught up in my own woes that I never hear you. I think it might help you.”

Crowley shook his head. “I’ll stick with napping, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled, moving his ashtray to his other side and then raising his arm. Crowley squinted down at him for a few long moments. Aziraphale hit the blunt, and then made grabby hands with his raised hand.

“It’s coping time, my dear,” he said expectantly. “Glasses off, if naps are how you cope, then you can do it now while I’m coping, too.”

Crowley rolled his eyes again, this time affectionately. He removed his sunglasses and tossed them somewhere to the side, pushing himself up against Aziraphale’s proffered side. He wrapped one leg around his angel, tucking the other beneath the mound of blankets, and tucked his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck.

From then on, every time Aziraphale needed to take some time to cope, maybe once or twice a month, he’d call Crowley up beforehand and tell him, “I’m calling a coping session, my dear.”

And, without fail, Crowley would always reply, “Alright, angel. I’ll be there in fifteen.”


	5. Awake in the Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instagram user @lillee.nika made the gorgon AU and I loved it so much, they gave me the sweet, juicy details and I got to write a little snippet!!

Crowley was not used to being this alone for so long. He _should _have been—he’d been alone for years _before—_but now that it was all over, even the snakes weren’t speaking to him. After the first few hours of reassurance attempts that fell flat, of quiet hisses of _it’ll be okay _and _we love you, _Jan had said, _want Azzzziraphale, _and then all the others had went silent.

_Especially _Jan. Now, Jan just hung limply at the side of Crowley’s neck, scales cold and harsh, his eyes closed. He’d not so much as hissed _once _since it happened, had just… ignored everything and everyone. It was as though he’d died of freezing cold without the warmth Az—

_No, _Crowley chided himself. _Don’t think about it. You can’t think about it, about _him.

The garden had never been so cold, but Crowley didn’t much care. It was all superficial, anyway. All he really needed was his warm stone and that was _all_. Just his short little dais, warmed by only the sun and too wide, _too empty._

And if Crowley was crying again, curled up on his side as he was, then nobody had to know.

And nobody _did _know. Nobody else was _here._

Just up the path, up to the right, hidden behind shrubbery and a very large oak tree, something rustled. Crowley briefly lifted his head but set it back down after a few moments after determining, _no, don’t hope, it’s just a squirrel. _He stubbornly ignores the small drinking pond at the edge of his garden where he’d stared desperately into his own eyes and tried to—

“Crowley?” called a soft voice just nearby, where the bush-shuffling had been.

Except… _No. He’s gone. You must be hallucinating._

For the first time in three days, Janthony lifted his head, his forked tongue flitting out, and then jerked forward.

“Oi!” Crowley sneered, bringing a hand up so he could make sure Jan stayed attached to his head. “Knock it off.”

_Azzzzziraphale, _Jan hissed.

“Stop it,” he answered.

“Crowley!” the voice called again, a smidge more frantically. “My dear, where’d you go?”

Crowley sat up, trying and failing to dismiss the spark of hope that made him do so, and Aziraphale crashed forward onto the path, the crown of flowers Crowley had set upon his head early the second day rolled delicately forward and fell flat onto the ground. Crowley stood bolt upright, his heart hammering rapidly in his chest. A few of the snakes hissed curiously, wondering what was happening, whether Aziraphale was _really _back, and Janthony wriggled wildly, trying his hardest to actually, _really _escape Crowley’s head.

“Angel?” he asked, voice a hoarse whisper as he watched Aziraphale push himself onto hands and knees.

Aziraphale turned his head to follow his voice, and his eyes—_so blue, bluer than the sky, blue as the most beautiful sapphires and silks and rivers and—_wouldn’t focus. “Crowley, is that you?”

Crowley tried hurriedly to find his sunglasses, but he recalled too late that they’d been broken in the battle, and that he’d smashed them to bits when he’d come across them trying to clean up his garden on the first day. He averted his eyes, though he tried to catch a glimpse of his angel from his peripheral.

“Of course it’s me, angel,” he managed tearfully, lip wobbling and face burning. Janthony hissed excitedly again, _desperately, _trying to go to Aziraphale. “How—? Er… Do you… Do you remember what happened?”

“I do, my dear,” he said. His voice was tremulous in a way Crowley didn’t think he’d ever heard. “Now, please, I need you to help me.”

Crowley was stunned silent for a few moments, casting his eyes back to Aziraphale.

_“Please,” _Aziraphale repeated, voice definitely shaking, and Crowley went to him.

~*~

Aziraphale woke up to darkness.

This, of course, wasn’t surprising. He’d _known _he’d be blind when he awoke. He’d made the decision himself.

Aziraphale tried not to think of burning his vision away with his own Grace, of not being strong enough halfway through, but _needing _to do this, of God’s hands guiding his own back up so the dark would swallow him up. Nope. He definitely did _not _think of it. Not at _all._

He collapsed forward onto the soft earth. His right shoulder felt a little stiff, probably from the position he’d been holding his right arm in. He felt something on his head, a barely-there weight. The sweet perfume of flowers reached him, and he could feel soft petals all around him, and stems—whole flowers around him, and then the petals of some. He pushed himself onto his feet, wincing at the residual pain in his gut and the ache in his knees.

“Crowley?” he asked. He didn’t know how long he’d been gone, but he couldn’t ignore the sinking in his gut when he found no reply. He just stood there, feeling unsteady, on soft earth, just stood in the darkness that he could now recognize, faintly, as day, from the warmth of the sunlight which dappled on him from between leaves.

“Oi!” he heard, rasping and mean. “Knock it off.”

There was a small, excited-sounding hiss, which made Aziraphale feel a little more shaky because _which of the snakes was hissing right now was it Dan or Zan or Tony or—_

“Stop it,” Crowley growled, and Aziraphale could recognize that tone. He _always _used that tone when Janthony was being a silly little snake.

“Crowley!” he cried out again, shuffling forward, hands outstretched so he wouldn’t knock into anything. “My dear, where’d you go?”

His foot caught a tree root, and Aziraphale fell forward _again, _except this time was scarier because _it seems so much longer oh dear I can’t see the ground oh God oh no I can’t see where I’m falling—_

There were a few hisses off to his left as he reached out and— _A flower crown._

Crowley had given him a flower crown.

It was something to hold onto. He kept it clutched to his chest with one hand as he pushed himself onto hands and knees.

“Angel?” Crowley tried. His voice was harsh and sad, so _miserable._

Aziraphale attempted to look toward Crowley, but he suspected he wasn’t doing very well at all. Still, just in case someone else was here, in case Crowley had been killed between then and now and someone had put on his voice and decided to wait for Aziraphale to wake up, “Crowley, is that you?”

There was a moment of tense silence. Then, sounding as though he were about to cry, Crowley said, “Of course it’s me, angel.” There was a small hiss. “How…? Er… Do you— Do you remember what happened?”

The only thing running through Aziraphale’s mind that was of importance right now was _where is he why isn’t he coming here why won’t he come to me please help please I can’t see you. _“I do, my dear,” he answered anyway. Then, feeling more than a little wobbly, “Now, please, I need you to help me.”

Silence was the only thing that met him. Aziraphale felt foolish and betrayed. How long had it been? Where had Crowley gone? Why had he let the Almighty trick him so?

_“Please,” _he began to cry.

~*~

Crowley didn’t even know how Aziraphale had gotten back until he lead his angel over to his sun rock.

He laid Aziraphale down on the rock, carefully and tenderly, making sure he didn’t hit his head, and then laid down with him, planting his head firmly on Aziraphale’s stomach. The snakes slithered about, as far as Crowley allowed them, also planting themselves firmly on Aziraphale’s torso.

“How did you come back?” he asked quietly, sitting up. _Hey, _Jan protested, snapping at Crowley. “You’d died and then been turned to stone, angel. How are you… _not?”_

Aziraphale was looking at him. Well… not _at _him. More… _toward _him. Crowley was relieved to be able to see his angel’s eyes again, but there was something pinging at him, grabbing his attention, as though _something _had changed. Crowley just couldn’t figure out _what._

Banthony bonked him in the eye. Crowley yelped, nearly tipping backward, and brought a hand up to cover his eye. He glared at Ban. “What, you tiny wanker?”

Banthony hissed, _Eyes._

“What about my eyes, Ban?” Crowley groaned. “They look like all of you guys’ eyes? Yes, we’ve been through that.”

_Not _your _eyes, _Ban chided. _Angel’s eyes._

“What’s Banthony saying, my dear?” Aziraphale asked. He was still looking in Crowley’s general direction. Crowley huffed, taking his angel’s face between both his hands. He held Aziraphale’s face still, trying to meet his eyes, but his angel’s eyes wouldn’t focus. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Your pupils are white,” Crowley realized. “What happened to your eyes, angel?”

“Ahaha,” Aziraphale laughed nervously. His face flushed. “Uh. What do you mean? Nothing— Nothing’s happened, my dear.”

“Now isn’t _that _bullshit.” Crowley tapped Aziraphale’s cheek a few times. “Look at me, angel. I need to know you’re here with me.”

“Oh…” Aziraphale tugged his face from Crowley’s grip and brought one of his own hands up to grab Crowley’s hand clumsily. It was almost as though he didn’t know where. Aziraphale held it tight to his chest, and his eyes faced upward, unfocused and bright. “Um. About that, Crowley. Ah. _Look _at you.”

Crowley tensed, and all the snakes reared in curious hesitation, hissing quietly. “Aziraphale, what aren’t you telling me?”

The angel swallowed, blinked white-pupiled eyes at him, and then recounted the tale: over the last however-long he’d been gone, he’d had a visit with God, and he’d had a very big choice to make. Aziraphale told him of the longing, of the crying, the bartering, the begging. Of speaking to the Almighty, of heat and a vague half-dimness which had terrified him, of asking for God to help him try again. God, Aziraphale explained, had needed him to make the decision himself. The only thing the Almighty did to assist in his blinding was hold Aziraphale’s hands still and steady when he lost the strength to deliver so much pain unto himself.

And, when Aziraphale was finished telling him that, Crowley stretched himself up and resettled directly beside his angel. Aziraphale’s sharp intake of breath when Crowley pulled him in via his back and head did not go unnoticed.

_Comfort angel, _Tony urged.

_Yes, comfort, _Dan agreed skittishly. _Hold. Warm._

_Angel warm. Hold angel, _Banthony insisted.

_KISS HIM! _Janthony hissed excitedly, right on cue. _KISS AZZZIRAPHALE!_

Crowley huffed at his snakes’ antics, gathering Aziraphale close to his chest. Aziraphale’s hands scrabbled for purchase until they caught on Crowley’s dark robes, one clutching the sleeve and the other having gathered a fistful of the fabric covering Crowley’s torso. He used one hand to rub gentle, calming circles into his angel’s back, and the other to tuck Aziraphale’s face into his neck. Aziraphale was still tense after this.

“Rest, angel,” Crowley said, ducking down to lay a gentle peck on Aziraphale’s fluffy white-gold hair. He pointedly ignored Janthony’s too-elated hiss of _YESSSSSSS! _“You need it. I’ll protect you.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale breathed shakily, body finally relaxing. Crowley couldn’t help the sigh of relief as his angel began to feel less like a statue in his arms. “Wake me up if you need me, Crowley. I know I must’ve scared you with the whole… hm. _Event.”_

“I absolutely will.” Crowley pressed another light peck to Aziraphale’s forehead. “You just breathing is enough, Aziraphale. Right now, I _need _you to rest.”

Aziraphale, with no further adieu, slipped into a warm sleep, where he dreamed of Crowley and his garden in the most vibrant, verdant colors he could ever remember.

Crowley, soon after Aziraphale, fell asleep as well. He dreamed of the warm spring that would come this year.


End file.
